It’s the thing I’m drawn to, the chipped tooth
in pearling light, a hung door crooked in its frame,
the snake’s shed skin shimmering by the lake,
a spread of feathers in mud, one downy tuft
Riffling in the wind, “Here, here, here.” Not that
I’m impartial to perfection’s lull, oh, but the lie
of it. Nothing speaks of faults like cracked cliffs
crazed, the broken glaze of painted pottery, no
story in the dead snag, split, gray, leaning
into the weathered erosion of decay,
the crooked path winding under the weight
of stone, always falling, the asymmetric arc
of exfoliation, harsh, unvarnished, unfinished,
done, and done in, the imperfect line that sings.